FOR HALF A CIRCUMNAVIGATION, MAX CAMPBELL WAS CHASING HIS PACIFIC DREAM. AND NOW FRENCH POLYNESIA IS EVERYTHING HE HOPED IT WOULD BE
Beside the quiet, sun-bleached Mexican town of La Cruz de Huanacaxtle lies a busy anchorage on the north side of Bahía de Banderas. Humpback whales cruise nonchalantly through the bay, unconcerned about the nearby boats. The combination of good shelter, cheap restaurants, and marine stores has led to a large community of cruising sailors.
Throughout March and April, the eager group of ‘puddle jumpers’ gather in the town’s sail loft. Amid dusty spinnakers and used paper charts, they chat about weather windows. Over beers and tacos they share knowledge about the 2,800-mile passage from Mexico to French Polynesia.
The crossing is similar to a transatlantic in distance, but without the three-week promise of tradewinds. We’re taught the right approach: wait for a low to push a few days of consistent northerlies down the west coast of North America. This allows a yacht to sail away from the usually benign Mexican coastline. A little over 500 miles offshore lies the island of Clarion, where we’ll find the north-east tradewinds.
From Clarion, it’s all downhill to the equator and the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). Here, we can expect a few hundred miles of light, variable winds. Finally, we’ll pick up the south-east trades before making landfall in the Marquesas.
SAILING FREE
In the second week of April, we leave Puerto Vallarta on a close reach, slicing through the brisk downflow from California and the Sea of Cortez. On board, I have two friends, Alex Thompson and Chloë Peglau. With two reefs in the main, we follow our instructions and cut our way through the short, steep sea towards Isla Clarion.
During the moonless nights, Elixir’s bow pierces through jet-black waves. The inky water cascades over everything, igniting the phosphorescent plankton and peppering the deck with bright-green sparkles.
For two days, solid water flows over the deck like a river. It surges past the cockpit coamings before pooling around the scuppers on the leeward guardrail. Small flying fish and squid land on the deck gasping. The lucky ones wash overboard with the next foaming crest, while the rest remain to be peeled from the deck.
Despite the wet conditions, a boobie manages to land on the pulpit, where it stays most of the night. Occasional squawks reach us from the bow. I can make out its round form clinging to the rail as the bow plunges into the grey sea.
